


The Exorcism of Tomas Ortega

by clockheartedcrocodile



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brief homophobia, Canon-Typical Demonic Possession, Exorcism, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Integration, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, dante's inferno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 02:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13067118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockheartedcrocodile/pseuds/clockheartedcrocodile
Summary: Marcus pulls the trigger, but the gun doesn't fire.The demon of Nachburn Island successfully integrates with Tomas.





	The Exorcism of Tomas Ortega

**I.**

On the first week, Marcus says goodbye to civilization.

He goes to the nearest gas station on the mainland and buys salt, water, a first-aid kit, sewing needles, staples, and enough food to last him three weeks, all with Andy's wallet. He knows it won’t be enough.

It’s a long walk from the docks to the abandoned Kim house, through the forest full of dead cobwebs and the dying leaves of an early autumn. It’s dark, too dark for Marcus to keep his footing, and he stumbles once or twice but keeps going. He feels nothing.

The False Tomas is still where he left it, chained to the wall of the boys’ room. It’s the safest room in the house. There is nothing sharp or dangerous, nothing a blind boy might injure himself against.

“You really don’t get it, do you,” says the thing that slipped down Tomas’ throat and ate his heart. There’s a new pupil growing like a tumor in its eye. “There’s nothing left of him but his skin. I broke him in half and sucked out the marrow of his soul.”

“Unclean spirit,” says Marcus, “profane thing, ashes on the earth, you are loved.”

This goes on for seven days.

**II.**

On the second week, time slows down.

It passes second by second, hour by hour, as slow and steady as a saline drip.

Marcus’ throat aches from ceaseless litanies. _Pray for us, pray for us, pray for us._ He cries out to God, but God does not answer. He can’t remember the last time he wept; his blood is too cold with grief.

Sometimes the False Tomas will lie still for hours on end, kept standing only by the chains around its arms and belly. It’s as beautiful as Tomas ever was, perhaps even more so for its attitude of exquisite suffering. St. Sebastian incarnate.

Then it opens its eyes and grins a devil’s grin, and Marcus continues to pray. 

**III.**

On the third week, a storm descends upon the island, and all ferries are cancelled until further notice.

The wind rattles the windows, and the roof threatens to cave in under the tempest.

“Just like Charnwood Forest, where King Lear went mad, eh?” says the False Tomas. There is an ugliness to its voice, a kind of cruel lasciviousness that makes Marcus feel ill. “How about going mad yourself?”

The storm shatters windows and stampedes through the house, whipping at Marcus’ skin and tugging at his filthy clothes.

“You wanted him to fuck you, didn’t you?” says the False Tomas. It humps the air, and laughs when Marcus bares his teeth. “Should’ve spread your legs for him when you had the chance. Take off these chains and I’ll pop your cherry for you.”

Marcus wants to scream, but his voice is too weak to try. “I am going to bring you back,” he whispers. “I am going to bring you home.”

“You can try,” says the False Tomas. “You can try.”

**IV.**

On the fourth week, the food runs out.

The False Tomas doesn’t move, doesn’t even try to, just leans against the wall and watches Marcus starve.

“You look hungry,” it tells him. “You should leave, go back to the mainland.”

The storm has given way to torrential rain, which pours through the windows and soaks Marcus to the skin. Some of the other rooms are beginning to flood.

“I’ll live off rats,” he says. “I’ll hunt something if I have to.”

Outside, they hear the distant howling of feral dogs. A smile spreads wide across the False Tomas’ face. “Good luck,” it says softly.

**V.**

On the fifth week, the False Tomas grows impatient.

“How many souls could you have saved in this time?” It asks. It flexes its arms against its chains, struggling to free itself, but to no avail. Black-and-blue bruises are blooming on its arms, and it’s biting its lips bloody in agitation. “You can’t possibly stay there forever.”

“I will stay here till Judgement Day.”

“It’s your will against mine, Vessel-of-Nothing.”

“No,” says Marcus. “It’s God’s will against yours.”

**VI.**

On the sixth week, the False Tomas begins to scream.

“You bastard!” it screeches, straining against its chains. “You cockhound, you sodomite, you piss-stain, you five-pound boy!”

Blood drips from its eyes, its mouth, its nostrils. A dark stain is spreading across the front of its pants, and even as Marcus watches, its ears begin to bleed as well.

Marcus sits slumped against the wall, his Bible discarded, a dead rat, half-eaten, sitting by his feet. His rosary has left an ugly red imprint in the palm of his hand, from being clasped too tightly for too long. He looks and feels like a man possessed.

“Please,” he murmurs, “please, Father, please, please, please…”

He has no more prayers left in him. Just one word, repeated over, and over, and over.

**VII.**

On the seventh week, the False Tomas suggests that there is no God.

Marcus almost believes it.

**VIII.**

On the eighth week, Marcus wakes up in the infirmary.

Father Tomas is sitting by his bedside, resplendent in his dark clothes and white collar. He looks clean and well-fed, and his skin has a healthy glow. His eyes are warm.

He smiles kindly at Marcus, and offers him a razor.

“It’s not real,” Marcus groans, as his eyes flutter open. “You’re not real.”

“You’re right, he’s not real,” sneers the False Tomas. “There’s nothing of him left in me. Quit wasting your fucking time.”

 _“Te amo, mi Tomas,”_ Marcus whispers, his hands shaking as he opens the last of the holy water. _“Sé que estás ahí. Vengo a buscarte.”_

He can’t bear to throw it in the False Tomas’ face, so he pours it onto its chest, where it scalds and warps the skin. The False Tomas shrieks in pain.

“Die…” it snarls, “die, die, die…”

**IX.**

On the ninth week, the False Tomas makes no more pretenses at humanity.

It begins to snarl and drool and hiss. Lacking the use of its hands, it grinds itself against the wall behind it, letting the splinters ravage the skin of its back. It stamps its feet against the ground until its ankles break, and all the while it screams.

 _“Let me go, let me go, let me go,”_ it screams. _“Abandon me, abandon me.”_

“I will never abandon you,” says Marcus, half-dead and running a high fever. He drags himself closer to the False Tomas and lays his hand against its leg. “Ashes on the earth, fallen angel…”

The False Tomas kicks him in the face. Marcus spits out a mouthful of blood.

 _“Abandon me, as God abandoned you,”_ it snarls down at him, drool ribboning from its mouth.

Marcus reaches up and lays a hand on its leg again.

“Ashes on the earth, fallen angel…”

**X.**

On the tenth week, winter descends upon the island.

The house drowns in snow, and a cold wind bites into Marcus’ heart and chills his brittle bones. Outside, the tree branches develop a shell of ice half an inch thick.

The False Tomas hangs limply from its chains like a martyr, still foaming at the mouth, blood and vomit dripping all down its front. It raises its head weakly to look Marcus in the eye.

 _“Why?”_ it croaks.

“You don’t get to know why,” says Marcus.

**XI.**

At the end of the final week, Tomas opens his eyes.

“Marcus,” he says in the smallest of whispers, and Marcus runs to him, unlocks his chains so he can slump into Marcus’ arms, limp and spent.

 _“Tomas,”_ he says desperately, sinking to the floor and clutching Tomas closer to him. “Please, God, Tomas, _look at me_.”

Tomas groans weakly, and looks up at a man more dead than alive, with ribs that show through his shirt and teeth bared in a perpetual feral grin. He’s the most beautiful man Tomas has ever seen.

“You brought me home,” he says, awe-struck, and Marcus presses their foreheads together and finally, finally begins to cry.


End file.
